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When You are Judged by the Eyes of a Cat

Know first you are nothing. It is a truth
at the level of instinct. Swallow the zen
of it before you measure the aurorae
at play in peridot fields. Which sort

of nothing you are she knows. Are you
the usual, ignorant as a killing frost,
or the useful kind of nothing, a hand
to offer comfort? Will you merit some day

a gentle head-butt to the shin, the honor
of waking at dawn to serve her, a small,
proudly-killed tangle placed gently
at your feet?